Chapter IV: Part 4

This bust will live. In its enigmatic grace it will become
more and more the expression of the woman who loves, just as "La
Gioconda" ("Mona Lisa") is the expression of the woman who is
loved. The one is all instinct, the other all spirit. The one
offers herself; the other promises herself. The one is tenderness
directed toward the past; the other smiles toward the future.

In the same gallery of the Luxembourg, there is that other
famous head called "La Pensée." What a contrast! It is strangely
bound within a block of marble, placed like a living head on a
block. And yet it tells only of the slightly resigned calm of
meditation, or of melancholy, without bitterness, of long autumn
days, with their diffused brilliancy. The outlines are firm,
regular, placid, of remarkable moderation in their distinction. The
head leans forward, because thought is a weighty matter. The brow
and the eyes are the dominant features. On them the sculptor has
focused all the light not only in the high lights, but in the still
surface as well.

The caprice of the artist has covered this head with a light
peasant-cap. This hides the details of the hair, and concentrates
the glance on the face. "Caprice" expresses the idea badly, for
it is taste and the will of the artist that have directed all.
These dreamy features express the practical mysticism of women,
the effort of intelligent devotion. It makes one think of St.
Geneviève, of Jeanne d'Arc, of the overwhelming courage of a weak
being carried beyond and out of herself by a great purpose.

"La Pensée" has the striking character that almost all the
busts of Rodin assume in the future, and which they owe on the
one hand to their intense lifelikeness, and on the other to the
atmosphere with which the sculptor surrounds them. There are no
hard-and-fast limits which separate them from the circumambient
air; on the contrary, they are bathed in it. The "blacks," which
give a hard, dry look when used to excess, are handled marvelously.
The women's busts, especially, almost start up before us with this
slightly fantastic look of life increased tenfold, with the charm
of phantoms of marble, monumental, and yet as light as beautiful
mists.

These effects of light and shadow perhaps harmonize best with
the softness and delicacy of the feminine flesh. They convey to us
naturally the mystery of an inner life more secret, more intimate
than that of man.

Even with works that are similar, the public does not
recognize their common origin. It sees the result of an
extraordinary amount of observation and intelligence, yet it does
not reflect more than a child. For the public the sculptor, whoever
he may be, is a creature of instinct, with a trained eye and hand,
but without mind and culture. He is a sculptor, that is all. A
common proverb strengthens the belief in this lasting folly. It
may be told, then, that the master with whom we are here dealing
studies his models not only as a sculptor, but as a writer studies;
that often his hand drops the chisel for the pencil, in order to
set down his observation more exactly, to search even further into
nature.

Perhaps the public will at last grasp the fact that the true
artist, under penalty of ceasing to be one, must, above all, expend
an amount of attention of which other men are incapable, and that
it is by this power of attention that the strength of intelligence
is measured. For example, Rodin is facing his model, a young
woman stretched out in an attitude of repose. He writes, and in
his style we find all the power of the great draftsman. He marks
the outlines, he specifies the details, slowly, patiently, with
pertinacity. He never confuses the impression, always so ready to
elude one--the impression, the divine reward of the artist.

* * * * *

The dazzling splendor revealed to the artist by the model that divests herself of her clothes has the effect of the sun piercing the clouds. Venus, Eve, these are feeble terms to express the beauty of women.

The head leans to one side, the torso to the other, both inclining indolently, gracefully. This body has been glorified. The contours flow, descend, repose, like immortality personified. The breasts follow the same curve. The flowing lines are all in the same direction. Unchangeable, heaving above the half-opened screen of the dress, the breath scarcely lifts them. It does not stir or agitate them.

The beautiful human monument is balanced in repose. It is unassailable. It is the gradation of contours.

I do not draw them, but I see them in place, and my spirit is content, accustoms itself to the impression. In memory I still make drawings of this model, and these moving lines are repetitions, done over again a hundred times; for I repeat the drawing constantly, like a caress.

This torso resigns itself, like an Ariadne whose contours melt away in the evening, in the dark. But the lightning of day has flashed there. It is there always. It is now the pale gleam of flesh. My mind, carried along, takes this form as its model.

The hand, the arm, support the head, the sidelong glance from which is so full of sweetness. One might call it a "Mona Lisa" reposing. This head feels the need of resting on the supporting hand, a delicate support like the handle of a vase. Like an urn about to pour out its water, its thought, it inclines.

Lying back on the cushion, the head is in high relief. The features are placed according to their due regard, which is the very soul of balance. It has made the eyes symmetrical; the eyebrows straight; the nose, where beauty and symmetry meet, expressive of a wholesome conformity.

When a woman is very beautiful, she has the head of a lion. From the lion is copied that splendid regularity of the eyes, which the oval of the face accentuates. The tawny mane is also lion-like in its regularity and majesty, without any other expression.

Arches are formed without effort of all the parts of the eye. The hinges of the eyes open and close. The open mouth keeps back neither the thoughts nor the words that have been spoken. There is no need for her to speak. Her age, her thoughts, all is a confession here--the features, the arch of the frank, noble mouth, as well as the form of the nose and the sensitive nostrils.

And this infantile glance under a woman's eyelid! Our soul demands that, by an agreement with the heavens, the feminine glance should be celestial.

How I bathe in the calm beauty of these eyes, with their regular drawing! How they themselves declare their tranquil joy! Sometimes eyes like these seem to be inhabited by spirits. They close, and I see the horizontal lashes, the lower lid, which just rests against the upper. I see as a whole the soft oval of these long eyes, the double circle of the lids themselves, and the circle beneath, so modest now, but which one calls the circle of love.

The eyeball in moving shows the clear pupil, and all about it press the circles of the delicate lids. The soul finds a refuge in these secret hiding-places, and throws out its circles of attraction like a lasso. This sensuous soul is the soul of beautiful portraits.

The cheeks curve against the socket of the eye; the double arch of the brows prolongs itself behind them. The surface of the cheeks extends to the extremity of the nose, forms a double depression by the sinking of the cheek, which grows hollow toward the convex lip, and surrounds the mouth and the two lips. These facial lines and surfaces all stop at the chin, toward which all the curves converge.

The facial expressions proceed from, spread, and move in another circle. They all disappear in the cheeks, just as do the movements of the mouth. One curve passes down from the ear to the mouth; a small curve draws back the mouth and also the nose a little. A circle passes under the nose, the chin, to the cheekbones; a deep curve, which starts back to the cheekbone, cuts in a small hollow to the eyebrow. The features are distinct; but when they move, they merge into one another. The smile passes over the face by a circle defining the mouth. The edge of the mouth is defined by a mezzotint at the point of union.

The loose hair surrounds the cheek, and the head seems like a golden fleece on a distaff. It hangs like loosened garlands. How beautifully these garlands of hair are arranged, with the profile in a three-quarter view, standing out against the fine, tawny hair! The impressive harmony between the flesh and the hair! They seem altogether in accord; they lend each other languor and charm; they are united and separated at the same time. These drooping clusters of chestnut-blond hair are a frame. One might call them long flowers hanging from the edge of a vase.

The neck no longer holds erect the head, which moves in ecstasy. It drowns itself in the wavy flow of hair, which becomes undone at the moment. This inundation of hair, so to speak, what a generalized expression of opulence it is! Before its beauty I feel imbued with love. I am seized with enthusiasm, aflame with it. This gold, this dull copper, is like a field of grain, a field of corn, where the sheaves are of gold bound together. These sheaves, slightly disordered in their lengthening curves, turning in all directions, imitate the tone of subdued flesh tints.

In this veil, transparent and colored like a dead leaf, the ear is hidden in shadow, where the hair flies back at random in strands, twists about, and returns.

O head, beautiful ornament, drooping against the edge of the couch like a lovely motive in architecture at the edge of a console, you express the prolonged weakness of a lovely languor! The shoulder extends its beautiful curve before the face, resting on its side; the line rises, passes near the nose, descends, and shows the red line of the mouth, just as the bees continually enter and go out of the opening of the hive. The face turns, but the eye returns to me, passes by me, and again gazes upon me.

In it there is the softness of the dog's eye, a spirit which becomes motionless when the tyranny of passion has disappeared. When passion is in control, she sucks like a vampire that delicate flesh, which is the model of calm, the exquisite remainder of calm.

This crown of beauty is not made for one woman alone, but for all women. They do not know it, and yet all in turn attain this beauty, as a fruit ripens. This calm is more potent in them than in the most beautiful statues. They are unaware of it, and the men who are near them are unaware of it also. They have not been taught to admire. They have not been educated in the science of admiration.

When, in the galleries of the Louvre, magnificent rooms where are gathered the collections of antiques, day enters through the windows and lightly touches these beautiful sculptures which are the adornment of great palaces, do they understand any better? Do they realize the collaboration between the sculptor and the light?

IV

AN ARTIST'S DAY

The residence of Rodin, the Hôtel Biron, is situated at the
extreme end of the rue de Varenne, in the Faubourg St. Germain.
The long straight street is lined on both sides with old mansions
that lend a distinctive nobility to this district of Paris. The
street is solemn, the quiet austere. Only rarely a carriage rumbles
by. Like the tide of a river, the air sweeps down this street from
the Boulevard des Invalides, which at its other end opens upon the
Esplanade des Invalides, like a great lake.

Now and then one catches glimpses of the spacious courts, the
steps, the peristyles, and the ornate, but at the same time simple,
pediments. Most of these mansions were, and many of them still are,
inhabited by families associated with the history of France.

The northern façade of the Hôtel Biron and the courtyard
through which one enters are hidden behind a high convent wall, for
in the nineteenth century the old residence of the Duc de Biron
was transformed into a religious school of the Sacred Heart. There
the daughters of the aristocracy were educated. In consequence of
the law of 1904 relating to the religious orders, the mansion was
vacated, and taken possession of by the state, which rented it in
apartments. Rodin, ever in search of old buildings, in which alone
he can think and work in comfort, soon became the main tenant.

To ring the bell one must reach high. With difficulty one
turns the handle of the door, which swings slowly. It is a portal
made for coaches to pass through. Under its monumental arch one
seems as insignificant as an insect. To the right of the court is
the old chapel of the religious community. Its somber character
stands out against the neighboring secular buildings. The cold
style of Charles X, in which it is built, forms a strange contrast
to the charming structure of Jacques Gabriel, the celebrated artist
who in the eighteenth century endowed Paris with many works of art,
among others this pavilion of the rue de Varenne, the Hôtel Biron.
Nevertheless, had it not been for Rodin, this building would have
been torn down.

It is a vast mansion, extremely simple, and built on the
lines of an elongated square. Its great charm is due wholly to its
correct proportions and to the grace and variety of its beautiful,
tall windows, some straight, others rounded, and surmounted by an
inconspicuous ornament, the signature of the artist. All of them
are enlivened by little squares of glass, which are to a window
what the facets are to a diamond.

The spacious vestibule is paved with black and white marble,
its ceiling supported by six strong columns. A charming stone
staircase rises here. All is in the style of Louis XV, a style that
is dignified when it is not delightfully elegant and coquettish.

The house was to be torn down, and sold as junk; but Rodin
was on guard. Ever since he had learned that this masterpiece was
condemned his heart had bled, and for the first and only time in
the course of his long existence an outside interest took him
from his work. He wrote letters, took legal steps, called to
his assistance artists, people of culture, and men in politics.
M. Clémenceau, then president of the cabinet; M. Briand, who
succeeded him; M. Gabriel Hanotaux, one of his great friends;
M. Dujardin-Beaumetz, under-secretary of state of fine arts,
all listened to his indefatigable pleading. Finally his plea was
heard, and the Hôtel Biron was classified as a historical monument,
henceforth inviolate. Then the speculators had to abandon their
idea of filling the park with hideous modern structures, and of
disfiguring in six months this unique Quartier des Invalides, to
construct which the architects had given years of work and all
their intelligence.

Rodin's admirers soon conceived the idea of converting the
Hôtel Biron into a museum for the master's works, which they
pledged themselves to defend with a tenacity equal to that which
Rodin had just displayed.

* * * * *

I knock at the door of the studio and rapidly pass through
two large rooms containing no furniture, only busts of bronze and
groups of marble. When I enter the study, Rodin is not here; I
glance about. All the details of this room are familiar to me, but
they always seem new, because everything is in harmony here, with a
harmony which varies according to the day and the hour.

It is a morning in spring. The bright light sheds its rays
on the various antiquities that the master has assembled here:
Empire chairs, with faded velvet coverings; a Louis XIV arm-chair
of gilded wood and cherry-colored silk, in which one might fancy
Molière seating himself to chat with Rodin, who, ever ready as he
is with a bit of raillery, would surely not have failed in repartee.

On a round table there is a Persian material, and some
Japanese vases filled with tulips and anemones. On the mantelpiece
are bronzes from the far East and a statuette of porcelain in
marvelous blues that Rodin calls his "Chinese Virgin." On the
walls, close together like the stones in a mosaic, are many of the
master's water-colors. Their well-chosen tones harmonize with and
intensify those of the flowers, the fabrics, and the ceramics of
bygone days.

Scattered pedestals support huge bronze busts, which call to
mind warriors of the Middle Ages, and some unfinished pieces. They
consist of small groups that, under the eye of the master, seem to
grow out of the white marble, and in the golden sunlight look as
soft as snow.

On this table, where Rodin takes his meals and writes, is a
Greek marble, a little torso without arms or legs; I know it well,
for he showed it to me while murmuring words of admiration. This is
his latest passion.

I enter the garden, where he is enjoying a moment of rest, for
he has been working a long while. Owing to his habits as a good
workman, he rises at five every morning.

I pass through one of the big doors which open upon the park.
The beautiful view always captivates me anew. The light, the air,
the expanse of sky, the magnificent groups of trees, this rustic
solitude in the heart of Paris, take one by surprise, inspire and
elevate the spirit. Rodin is here, smiling and in good humor.

We are on the terrace that overlooks the expanse of green
and forms a sort of slanting pedestal for the pavilion. Below
stretches a broad alley, almost an avenue, overgrown with a rich
carpet of grass and moss, which loses itself in the distant wood.
Fruit-trees, growing wild, form impenetrable screens on both sides
of this alley.

The grandeur of this park is largely due to the age of the
trees. Stepping to the edge of the balustrade, I can see toward the
right the dome of the Invalides, standing alone, outlined against
the sky, like a burgrave on guard under a helmet of gold.

The northern façade of the pavilion has a severe character.
It is the façade which visitors and passers-by see, and for this
an elegant simplicity suffices. But this other side, bathed in
the midday sun, is meant for friends. All the delicate splendor
that the architect conceived is expressed in these stones. This
sculptured pediment, this balcony with its console of flowers, and
the graceful windows, with their semicircular transoms, are models
of elegance. The Hôtel Biron is not large, but it is imposing. The
blockheads who inhabited it during the last century, blind to its
beauty, deaf to its appeal, demolished and sold the wrought-iron
balustrades of the windows, balconies, and staircases, but they
were not able, thank Heaven! to destroy its innate beauty.

"Let us go to work," said Rodin. I go back to the statues;
Rodin begins to draw. In a little while he will model. During his
hasty luncheon he has the little Greek torso placed before him, and
he makes notes all the while.

True genius is as changeable as nature. It finds as many ways
of expressing its ideals as it finds subjects. But what always
remains the same is the desire to be sincere. Yet the artist, with
the best of intentions, is often the victim of his own sincerity.
Rodin is no exception to this rule, for even he has had his
portraits rejected. "There is no resemblance!" people declare,
while, on the contrary, the resemblance is too true. With his keen
insight he penetrates too far beyond the mere flesh of the model.
People are frightened at seeing their hidden personality brought
to the light of day, are taken aback at being compelled to know
themselves. They consider the sculptor indiscreet and dangerous.

If, in his portraits of men, he pries to their very souls,
if he reveals without pity those of his own sex, his equals, his
companions in life's struggle, in his portraits of women he is
discreet and respectful. With delicacy he unfolds their delicate
mystery. He does not say anything which is not true, but frequently
he does not express the whole truth. Genius is ever in quiet
complicity with womanhood, and leaves it in that half-obscurity
which is its greatest power.

In the bust before us of Mrs. X---- , one wonders what he
refrained from expressing. Surely neither the unusual beauty of the
woman nor her air as of an archduchess.

I remember the day when I saw this bust for the first time.
It was in the Salon, placed at the head of a high staircase. The
marble was brilliant. Something regal and also lovable attracted
those who came toward it. Resplendent in beauty, the shoulders
emerge from the folds of a wrap with the proud grace of one who is
to the manor born. The small, well-shaped head, supported by the
plump, though delicate, neck, is half turned to the slightly raised
left shoulder. The hair is drawn up high to form a crown, throwing
forward some light strands that shed their soft shadows over the
forehead, like a thatching of moss. The beautiful eyebrows, too,
lend mystery to the glance of the eyes, so full of sweetness and
understanding. The small ear is partly hidden under the waves of
the well-groomed hair. The lines of delicate symmetry which run
from the chin to the ear, and from the ear to the shoulder, and the
coronet of hair, give the bust its distinguished look of race.

Here we see, too, the firmness of beautiful flesh, hardened by
exercise, radiating that spirit of joyous life that springs from
a thoroughly healthy body, as we feel it in some of the Tanagra
figurines. The quiet reserve which stamps the refined Anglo-Saxon
is revealed, but not overaccentuated. The nose is straight and
slightly raised at the tip, the mouth frank and regular. Those
same changing shadows which beautify flowers, when the sun strikes
them through the leaves of a tree, play over this countenance, and
bathe it in a variety of delicate tones from the eyes to the chin.
But beneath this placid beauty there is a restless soul eager to
act, to express its goodness. The chin and the throat retain their
look of youth, even of something childlike for those whom she
loves; but the thoughtful brow is slightly wrinkled, as if from the
intelligent search for happiness.

This bust, almost Greek in its simplicity, is one of the most
purely beautiful that has come from Rodin's hands.

When we note the facility with which these works are produced,
seemingly a natural growth, like vintage and harvest; when we
contemplate these fruits of knowledge, we are too apt to overlook
the laborious efforts involved, and to forget that a life has
been given, drop by drop, to achieve this result in small steps
of progress. Even when we know all this, we often prefer to give
the credit to external causes, which appeal more strongly to our
superficial minds, rather than to that endless patience that is,
and always will be, the secret of genius.

I watched Rodin model the head of Hanako, the Japanese
actress. He rapidly modeled the whole in the rough, as he does
all his busts. His keen eye and his experienced thumb enable him
to establish the exact dimensions at the first sitting. Then the
detailed work of modeling begins. The sculptor is not satisfied to
mold the mass in its apparent outlines only. With absolute accuracy
he slices off some clay, cuts off the head of the bust, and lays it
upside down on a cushion. He then makes his model lie on a couch.

Bent like a vivisector over his subject, he studies the
structure of the skull seen from above, the jaws viewed from below,
and the lines which join the head to the throat, and the nape of
the neck to the spine. Then he chisels the features with the point
of a pen-knife, bringing out the recesses of the eyelids, the
nostrils, the curves of the mouth. Yet for forty years Rodin was
accused of not knowing how to "finish"!

With great joy he said one day, "I achieved a thing to-day
which I had not previously attained so perfectly--the commissure of
the lips."

In making a bust Rodin takes numerous clay impressions,
according to the rate of progress. In this way he can revert to the
impression of the previous day, if the last pose was not good, or
if, in the language of the trade, "he has overworked his material."
Thus one may see five, six, or even eight similar heads in his
studio, each with a different expression.

Hanako did not pose like other people. Her features were
contracted in an expression of cold, terrible rage. She had the
look of a tiger, an expression thoroughly foreign to our Occidental
countenances. With the force of will which the Japanese display in
the face of death, Hanako was enabled to hold this look for hours.

Little by little, under the sculptor's fingers, the mask of
clay reflected all this. It cried out revenge without mercy, the
thirst, for blood. A baffling contrast this--the spirit of a wild
beast appearing on the human countenance.

I have one of these studies before me now. It has been cast
in a composition of colored glass, and the vivid flesh coloring
lends reality to the work. This mask is not disfigured by rage. The
bloodless head, with its fixed stare, lies on a white cushion, and
no one escapes its disquieting influence. Some people shudder
when they see it. "One might think it the head of a dead person,"
they say.

Whenever I enter the spacious room I am irresistibly drawn
toward it. My feelings are different every time, but always there
is a feeling of uneasiness. I cannot say that it resembles death;
on the contrary, it is so lifelike that it is almost supernatural.
One might call it a condemned person, a being so terrified by the
approach of death that all the blood has rushed to the heart. It
is a spirit frozen with fear, the eyes looking toward the unknown,
the large nostrils scenting death. The bulging forehead, the high,
Mongolian cheek-bones, and the flat nose make the face still more
singular. All the lines of the face run toward the mouth, with its
remarkable expression. Obstinate, although conquered, it will draw
its last breath without a cry.

Meanwhile life seems to throb in every cell. This head, so
like a being that has been put to death, has the soft, pliant flesh
of a ripe fruit.

At night I return to look at it by the light of a candle.
It looks entirely different. The shadows vary as I move the
candle, and the features grow mobile. How gentle and touching it
seems now! It is no longer bloodthirsty and savage; that exotic
expression which repelled me has quite disappeared. These features,
expressing the innermost self under a stress of emotions, reveal a
poor creature that has loved and suffered. It is a pitiable face
that has been molded by life. I have seen that same sad, tired
expression of anguish in one whose whole strength is gone, but who
still makes an effort to understand misfortune in order to strive
against it. I have seen it on my mother's face when one of us was
ill.

* * * * *

A MORNING IN THE GARDEN

It is still night; the dawn is just breaking. I open my window to let the refreshing air drive away my drowsiness. From the end of the garden, in the underbrush, and now all about me, I hear much lively chirping. It tells of the blessing of love, of springtime.

It is almost day. The blackbird has ended his scene of love; no one was about when he sang his song of spring and harmony. The flowers listened, and blossomed at the call of this unseen Orpheus. The air is laden with misty melodies. These songs do not disturb the silence; they are part of it. Later we shall still hear the happy call of birds, but no longer these songs of love that proclaim the eternal reign of our mother earth.

Now is the time for sighs of happiness; the flowers consecrate themselves to the beautifying of Demeter, goddess of the under-world. Orpheus searches for Eurydice; he calls her, and his notes break the harmonious silence.

I must bathe my brows in the vague mist, in the fragrance of the earth, in the light of the dawning day. Spacious room, I leave you. I shall return to you to work, for here only have I known complete silence.

I hurry into the garden, where I find inspiring freshness. I had looked forward to it; my whole body was awaiting it. A sprouting twig proclaims the fullness of life. I am freed from the memory of yesterday, born anew for all the seasons to come. In the _palais_ thoughts are more subdued and modest, content to be bounded by the splendid proportions of the apartments--proportions that are correct, but nothing more.

The flight of time is marked by the song of the blackbird, and, as in Mozart's music, one cannot quite define whence its charm springs. It is everywhere, to the right, to the left. That voice seems to pierce through the gaps and hollows of the wood, for now one hears it as an echo, now as a solo, at the farthest end of the wood.

My flight of steps is my place for reflection, my _salle de pas perdus_.[1] At the foot of the steps the verdant carpet, sown with little stars of green, stretches out. It might be an old Arabian material or a rich marble. Bits of earth are to be seen in delicate gray patches. The shadow of night still enshrouds the garden in a cloudy veil. In the distance, outlined against the horizon, are the bleak walls of houses, like huge stones. About me stretches that enormous Babylon, that Paris where my tired nerves relax, where the substance of my life is woven, where my heart has found appreciation and no reproach, and where my mind, imbued with the true knowledge of life, has taught my soul the gracious lesson of submission.

This broad, beautiful lane is like a Corot, and recalls his nymphs. The bare trees look like limbs. A bright carpet of turf moistens their roots. Now a rabbit runs by. In the distance the carriages rumble like artillery. This is a fitting haunt for fauns, their rustic arbor. The trees serve as a roof, their green shoots melting into the sky. The freshness of new life is everywhere, and little exclamations of admiration spring from every creature.

With this universal youth new thoughts are born. In this delightful retreat one feels that only an antique statue could add to its beauty.

The trees expand with vigor, their buds outlined against the sky. The rest of the lane seems an avenue of enchantment. Far down at the end I seem to see happiness. But no, I am wrong: it is not only in the distance; it is here, all about me, now.

The slanting rays of the sun strike the trees and the grass; over the lane bluish shadows play. The spreading shade of the trees falls softly on the fresh green. Those little dashes of blue among the grass are forget-me-nots. Those beautiful trees, garbed only since a week ago, trail their lovely green draperies on the ground, while detached garlands cling to the shrubs.

The majesty of youth in nature is unique; it is charm itself, an inimitable thing. Yet some men of genius have been able to express the spirit of spring.

The very soul of meditation dwells in this garden, in this alley of trees. Polyhymnia, the Muse, in her graceful draperies, walks with me, and I follow her reverently.

Away from the turmoil, I can forget the constant hurry of our days. How we allow ourselves to be harassed! Reaching out for everything without possessing anything truly, we do not even realize what treasures we have lost. A few puffs of empty air are not poetry, and seeing happiness in the distance is not enjoying it. What hurries you? Ah, your life is out there, elsewhere? Go, then; but I shall remain here with the antique in my charming garden.

I will sit down on this old stone bench, surrounded by dense shrubs. The dead wood is piled in little heaps. The tree-tops form a semicircle, and stand out like a pantheon against the sky. The branches bear the marks of lightning and grow in zigzag. The sap of the earth rises in the arteries of the trees, ever ready to take part in the great festival of spring.

Now the charm of the alley consists in the differences of light and shade. As the one strives to advance, the other recedes toward the dale. The shadows disperse for the morning, leaving behind their beneficent moisture for their friends, the flowers of this dale.

Before me, on a knoll, stands a beautiful column, as if in prayer. It seems to have sprung from the kingdom of Pluto, and now, like us, it stands in the bright sunlight, a part of the out-of-doors.

Stone, pure and beautiful material, destined for the work of men, just as flax is destined for the work of women. A gift scarcely hidden under the earth, man has seized upon stones with rapture, carefully drawing them from their dark hiding-place, to raise them on high as in church towers, making them tractable, transforming the crude rocks, and appropriating them for masterpieces. Under the protection of man's sacrilegious hand, these stones lend beauty to our cities. They have a tender sympathy with the trees, the roots of which join their own.

Both hard and soft stones have a place in man's esteem. Sculpture has glorified them. The column is like a tree, but simpler than a tree, with a silent life of its own. And like the plants which cling about it, it also has its foliage and leaves. The artist who conceived the Sphinx made her to be the guardian of temples and secrets.

That column there rises up like a druid-stone, as though to converse with the moon at night. It awaits the appearance of man in the solemn ritual of night, for in its immensity it bears witness that man has created it. Man, too, has had his part, an ephemeral part, in the creation; his idea strives with the works of God, as Israel strove with the angel. His illuminating thought, expressed in stone, arouses those who otherwise might be insensible to beauty. The hand of man, like the hand of God, can transform a soul and make it new.

Mystery in which I have lived, but which I understand only now that I am about to depart. The marvel of it all! And to think that one must leave it! Well, that is the lot of all other living creatures.

And now the blue of the sky has grown darker, without a shadow, while beauty itself has taken its abode in these avenues of trees. Now and then passing clouds dim the glory of this splendid youth of nature, but the green is brilliant even in the shadow. High up among the trees, I see a blue river, the sky, while the great clouds, mountains of water, are hanging above to quench the thirst of the flowers.

[Footnote 1: _Salle de pas perdus_ is the name given to the large hall of the Gare St. Lazare, Paris.]

AN ANTIQUE FRAGMENT

Twenty times a day I walk in front of this little torso. I bring all my friends to see it, for Greek sculpture is the very source of beauty.

Why am I surprised whenever I look upon this torso? I think it is because nature, which is behind this work of art, always calls forth new, unlooked-for sensations.

Venus, glorious Venus, model of all women, your purity survives even after two thousand years. Your charm charms me--me who have admirers for my own sculpture. Before you they remain cold; but I, with a spirit that sees further--I admit my defeat as an artist, my poor ability vanishes before your grace.

Form, as I used to express it, seems a mere illusion before the harmonious strength of your lines, which embody the very truth of life. Divine fragment, I shall live by you! What days you recall to me! Perhaps the last moments of the soul of Greek sculpture, ever-increasingly my Muse.

This torso shows the suppleness and strength of the joints. It is a summing-up of former masterpieces of the artist. Those endless studies that grow into experience and all the qualities of balance are here concealed beneath the beauty and the gracious inspiration of the figure. The inspired sculptor has just discovered all these qualities, and in appreciation has given expression to them with his very soul.

An antique piece of sculpture cannot be imitated. This torso seems to have a soul. Are not the shadows trembling on it there? One can see them move.

What a progress toward truth we find in the advance from Assyrian and Egyptian to Greek art! Antique things, if we knew how to look at them, would bring about a new renaissance for us, we who stagnate in the Parisian spirit. The Parisian spirit, young though it is, is already too old to serve us. It is like those pretentious monuments, those constructions in plaster, which are hollow and horrible under their crumbling stucco.

Greece was the land of sculpture beyond all others. The subject of their sculpture was life. The people concealed it under names and symbols,--Jupiter, Apollo, Venus, the fauns,--but behind all these was the eternal truth of life.

This torso on my table looks as though it had been washed to the shore by the loving waves, as boats are stranded on the beach at low tide. What more beautiful offering could be made to men and gods? For is this fragment not an eternal prayer?

The thoughts expressed in this torso are numerous, infinite. I could write about it forever. Do I bring these thoughts with me? Is it I who put them into the marble? No, for when it is out of my sight, this divinity of life vanishes from me at the same time. Since it ceases to be in me, it must be the fragment which possesses it. It teaches a sculptor more than any professor could. It whispers secrets to me, and if I am true to it, it will tell me more and more; it will transform me in harmony with the soul of its friend, the Greek sculptor. For are not the thoughts of God expressed all the world over? Are they not the fruitful germs, now growing within a brain, now in a beautiful grouping of stone, and now captured by those magicians, the poets? And are sculptors, too, not like poets?

Where can one find more perfect harmony than in this fragment? It is a monument. And is it not providential? It is only a fragment, yet it seems to embody the whole Acropolis. Truth, that lasting joy, fills in all that is missing. It is a fact that this torso, which weighs one hundred and sixty pounds, seems as light as the woman herself would be, as light as her gracious, swelling flesh. I know contours, but the contours of a masterpiece always surprise me anew. Whenever I see you, beautiful little torso, my eyes and my soul feast on you. Masterpiece, you are my master, too.

If, as they say, stones have fallen from heaven, this surely must be one of them. I leave it in the condition in which I found it, as it first appealed to me, with all its charm, as I carried it in my arms to this table. The changing lights of day mold it; but I shall not touch it, I shall not change it. It is truth itself, and it shines in no matter what surroundings.

This torso has within it the seductiveness of woman, that garden of pleasure the secret charms of which imbue old and young alike with a terrible power. Feminine charm which crushes our destiny, mysterious feminine power that retards the thinker, the worker, and the artist, while at the same time it inspires them--a compensation for those who play with fire!

It is not by analysis that you will learn to understand art, you who are ignorant. Greek art eludes the imbeciles and ignorant who have always undervalued it. How can one comprehend this beauty by mere analysis? Where lies the secret of force? It is ever shifting. And the shadow, so genially arranged, varies with the way the light strikes it. In art, what do we call life? That which speaks to you through all your senses. If this torso were to bleed, it could not be more lifelike. The harmony of its lines dominates my soul. The soul lives and grows on masterpieces. That is why we have a soul.

Is it surprising, then, that I live with these antiques of mine, poets far more inspiring than any of our day? They have created beings that will live to survive us.

AN EVENING IN THE GARDEN

I leave my exacting work always more and more its slave. Walking, because of its regularity, always refreshes me. Such a walk means a great deal to me. It puts my nerves into a state of delightful tranquillity.

The trees are still bare of leaves and have a wintry look. At their base there are dainty sprouts, clouds of green. The lawns are ponds of emerald green. The charm of this alley is partly due to the twigs and shoots that sprout out of the ground and spring up like a cloud of lace.

There is a faint decline in this soft brightness, for now the sun is setting. The sun-god is moderating his power for the benefit of the little flowers which otherwise would dry up and fade. This is the hour when the sun lends full value to the works of man, so that architecture stands out in all its beauty, while at the same time the sun softly colors the lovely clouds.

The pediment of the Palais Biron is brilliant in the sunlight. The balcony casts shadows on the grimacing consoles, and the shell-work is luminous in this glorious light. The window-panes glow in glory. The great staircase seems arranged for ladies to descend on their way to the garden, graciously trailing their long robes, which rustle over the steps.

Like a pilgrim, full of hope, who rests a moment at the gates of a town, and breathes the balmy evening air, so I seat myself in this garden. The hour passes quickly, but it could not be better employed than in absorbing these marvels.

When the sun drops behind the horizon, with its glowing colors like the flaming fires of a forge, our hearts are filled with wonder and awe. It gilds all in a last golden glory of triumph, the sky so brilliant that one cannot define the line of the horizon. There, where the sun disappeared, the sky is now orange. Everything is fading away; another immensity spreads out before us. The glory of night is about to extend over the firmament its melancholy charm.

The corner of this garden is a corner of happiness, a corner of eternity. Here thoughts can thrive and worship, for here they have everything. For the great things in life are not the exceptional things, but the beauties of every day, which we do not stop to notice. These vast treasures, within our grasp, which we do not even touch, they are the things that count.

The public believes that one is happy in the admiration of nature; but there are various degrees of happiness. Doubtless a glorious feeling of admiration may take hold of one; but if one does not constantly cling to one's admiration as a matter of habit, one grows weary and becomes superficial. Indeed, I do not know why we demand another life, since we have not learned to enjoy and understand this one fully. In any case, if we find this a bad world, it is our fault. We are childish about it. We belittle one another wilfully. Fancy the trees doing that, if one could suspect them of such a thing!

When I descend the steps, I am overwhelmed by that fluid which is life. I am in touch with life. What more can I want? This tenderness which surrounds me everywhere, this ever-varying nature which says so much to me, the atmosphere which envelops me--am I already in heaven, or am I a poet?

V

THE LINE AND THE STRUCTURE OF THE GOTHIC

One of Rodin's friends, M. Léon Bourgeois, the eminent,
highly cultivated French statesman, has said, "Rodin is himself
a cathedral." This remark wonderfully characterizes Rodin's
intellectuality as it appears to us to-day. Rich in years and
experience, his intellect is in truth as complicated as a
cathedral, but like it, too, superbly simple in its general
structure. His intellect possesses the wealth of detail that makes
up life and the calm balance of the laws that govern nature. His
mind, formed on principles scrupulously controlled by observation,
abounds in that wonderful artistic imagination which is the poetry
of life. Ever renewing itself, ever active, his mind inspires
intense confidence because it is deeply rooted in truth. It looks
at its subjects of study with such conscientious devotion that it
perceives every phase of reality; for it is only love such as this,
a love springing not from impatience and passion, but from faith
and hope, that is always victorious in the end.

Churches! He lives near them, so as to study them in the
fleeting changes of the hours. He likes to be enveloped by the
sound of the church bells that for seven or eight centuries have
spoken the same language of discipline to the spirit of France.
Day and night he visits the naves. There his soul feels the sacred
mystery. The churches are truly the cradle of his artistic faith.

But it is only recently that the joys which he drew from them
reached their height; for although he was long under the influence
of Gothic art, that most extraordinary product of the hand of
man, only in the last few years has he learned to penetrate its
principles and understand its methods.

How often in my youth I questioned him about the cathedrals!
He always replied with that caution which in deep natures is a
form of deference: "I am pervaded by the marvel of this art; but
I cannot as yet explain it to myself. The Gothic is the world
foreshortened. Where am I to begin? For more than thirty years
I have been accumulating and comparing my observations. Perhaps
eventually I shall succeed in deducing the rule, the law of divine
intelligence; but perhaps I shall not have sufficient time. Then it
will be the task of another, younger than myself, who will start
his researches earlier, and who, besides, will have been informed
by me."

On his return from each of these pilgrimages he was possessed
by the happy restlessness of one who would soon be able to give
expression to his secret. One felt that "the law of divine
intelligence" was being formulated in his mind. I then hoped and
expected that soon he would reap the fruit of his long labors.

At last one day Rodin took me to Notre Dame, beautiful among
the beautiful, despite the modern restorations that have detracted
from the grace and suppleness of its sculpture. Notre Dame of Paris
is beautiful in itself and in its situation on the banks of the
Seine, that river of feminine grace, which in its innocent course
draws with it the memory of many terrible historic events.

From Notre Dame to Saint-Eustache, from the Tour Saint-Jacques
to Saint-Etienne-du-Mont, during this long walk of ours Rodin
talked, quite unaware of the curious glances of those who
recognized him, and of the scoffing of the street urchins, who
mistook the great Frenchman for a stranger discovering the capital
of France. Later he gave me numerous notes that supplemented his
conversations.

His words and notes combined form the clearest and most
important lesson on Gothic art that has been handed down since the
days of the Gild of the Francs-Maçons, by one of their own sort, a
craftsman such as they were, a veritable sculptor, a stone-cutter
loving the material in which he works.

Has Rodin, after so thoroughly grasping the secrets of the
builders of bygone days, never felt the desire to apply them in the
execution of some work of architecture? Was he never tempted by
their example and by that of Michelangelo to expand his resources
beyond those of the sculptor? Those who know the creative power
and the vastness of imagination of the modeler of "The Burghers of
Calais" and of "The Gate of Hell" may well ask this question.

Well, yes, he has had that great dream, which in more prolific
times would have become a glorious reality. He hoped to revive
the spirit of a day when a whole nation of artists covered France
with masterpieces; he hoped to organize labor collectively, and
to gather about him a legion of artisans to work together on a
monument which should become in a certain sense the cathedral of
the modern age.

He even drew up plans for that wonderful project, the subject
of which was to be the glorification of labor, that triumphant
force of our present civilization. He did not plan to rival the
Gothic style, the prodigious achievement of which would have
required throngs of workmen thoroughly organized and disciplined,
well trained under the system of master and apprentice,
accomplishing their common task in the joy of work and the
enthusiasm of faith. He planned to approximate the art of the
Renaissance, less removed from modern intellectuality, and simpler
of execution.

In Rodin's studio at Meudon one can see the plan for this
monument. The axis is a high column calling to mind Trajan's
Column, and, like it, covered with bas-reliefs. A tower broken
by large openings, as in the Tower of Pisa, encircles it. In the
interior a gradually inclining way leads one from the base to the
top along the bas-reliefs. These represent all the active crafts
and trades: those of the cities, such as masons, carpenters,
weavers, bakers, brewers, glass-workers, and goldsmiths; and
those of the country, such as plowmen, harvesters, vintagers,
vine-dressers, shepherds, and farmers. On the exterior, between
the arches, stand statues of the great geniuses that have led
humanity, whose efforts have raised them to celestial heights; that
is, to the peace and happiness of creating. There great thinkers,
inventors, and artists have their niches, just as the prophets
have theirs in the vaults of cathedrals. The edifice rests on a
crypt where groups of sculpture are devoted to the glorification
of work under the earth and its obscure heroes, miners, divers,
pearl-fishers. At the time when the plan for this monument was
advanced, and was exciting the imagination of European writers and
journalists, an ardent admirer of Rodin even proposed to build
the tomb of the master under the crypt, where he would have had a
resting-place worthy of a Pharaoh. On each side of the entrance is
a statue representing Morning and Evening, and at the summit of
the column two angels, messengers of God, their hands outstretched
toward the earth with a gesture of exquisite tenderness, shed the
blessings of heaven on the work of man.

Alas! this noble, stirring project will not be realized during
the life of the artist. Will there some day be another possessed of
the ardor and love of beauty necessary to build this mountain of
stone?

For a time Rodin's friends hoped that America, the nation of
work par excellence, would seize upon this idea. They pictured
the philanthropists of the New World in characteristic fashion
pouring forth millions for this work of universal art and national
glorification; they saw Rodin being called to the United States,
gathering about him not only American artists, but all the
intelligent forces of the world of culture. They saw the Tower
of Labor, with its angels bestowing their benediction over some
formidable industrial city, New York, Pittsburgh, or Chicago.
This might have been the starting-point for a new era of art, for
nothing is more contagious than the realization of beauty in actual
form.